


Glen Carviss- Westeros

by RagnarokAscendant



Series: The Multiversal Travels of Glen Carviss [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Original Work
Genre: Betrayal, Fuck the Lannisters, Let's wreck canon, NO NOT THAT WAY, Originally from AH.com, Sci-fi versus Fantasy, The Mannis has a Plannis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 02:59:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11348469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RagnarokAscendant/pseuds/RagnarokAscendant
Summary: I'm posting this from alternatehistory.comInspired by Rust's A White Knight for a Dark Day, which stuck Galahad in an identical situation.





	1. Arrival

The portal closed behind him as he stepped into the wood.

Well, he was well and done of  _ that _ universe. Crazy fancy-dressed omnipotent fucker…

He shook his head, divesting himself of useless anger. The... _ thing _ ... could hang for all he cared. 

The portal had dropped him near a river, the woods on every side. No sign of civilization.

 

Voices in the distance, the sound of wood striking wood. He stood corrected, then.

He ghosted through the woods, steps quick and careful.

A clearing was up ahead, the source of the noise, quick  _ clacks _ and shouts. As he approached, he saw a boy and girl, fighting with what looked like broom handles.

He made to approach, only to freeze as a soft growl sounded to his right, far too close for comfort. He turned his head slowly, and saw what was either a smallish wolf or a large dog, still growing into adulthood. He put a hand on the hilt of his kukri and backed away infinitesimally. “Don't mean them any harm, pup,” he said, voice soft and placating. The canine regarded him with cold grey eyes for a moment, before sniffing his hand and ceasing it's growling. 

_ “Arya?” _ a voice- a girl's- called incredulously from the clearing.

Great. More people.

 

He stepped into the clearing. Two boys, two girls, one for each side. One of the boys- couldn't have been more than twelve- had an honest-to-god sword in his hand, sized to him. The girl with him was around the same age, and both were mounted while their counterparts weren't. The other boy and girl were both unarmed, and poorer if their clothing was any judge.

Oh,  _ please _ let this  _ not _ be another universe where the rich hunted the poor for sport.

The sword-wielding boy got off his horse as his counterpart stood there, frozen. The rich boy's face was twisted in a mocking smile.

Dammit. Looks like he had to intervene.

 

###

 

“ _ What in God's name do you think you're doing, boy?” _ a voice shouted, startling all of them. Sansa turned in the saddle as a man approached from the trees. He was short, wearing a long brown coat, blue trousers, and an odd grey brigandine. “Put that sword away before someone gets hurt,” he snapped, glaring at Joffrey.

Joffrey glared back, stepping forward. “You shouldn't speak so to your prince,  _ commoner _ ,” he said, before turning back to Mycah. “Butcher’s boy. That was my betrothed’s sister you were hitting,” he said, raising Lion's Tooth to touch the boy's cheek. “Do you know that?” he asked, voice soft and dangerous. Mycah whimpered as a red line trickled down his cheek.

“ _ Leave him alone!” _ Arya yelled, scrabbling for her stick.

“I won't hurt him...much,” Joffrey said.

And then the man was suddenly  _ there _ , hands pulling Joffrey's arm away, Lion's Tooth falling to the ground as her prince’s wrist cracked like deadwood on a fire and he fell with a yell of pain.

The stranger had the sword now, and he stared at Joffrey with eyes that reminded her of awful Ilyn Payne's. “ _ Stop it, _ ” she screamed. “ _ You're ruining it, stop it!” _

The stranger’s gaze did not waver as he braced Lion's Tooth on the ground, and broke the blade under his boot.


	2. Consequences

 

“I want his head,” Cersei hissed, eyes glittering. “He  _ laid hands on our son! _ ”

 

“Hell, lady, do you ever shut up?” the stranger asked, utterly unconcerned with the ring of armed men who surrounded him.

 

“You assaulted your prince, goodman,” Cersei spat, glaring at him. “You should not worsen your crimes by speaking so to your Queen.”

 

“And as I have said, you are no Queen of mine, nor is this my country,” the stranger shot back.

 

“So says--”

 

“ _ ENOUGH!” _ Robert roared, making all present jump. “Now, would someone kindly bother to explain what in the seven hells is going on?”

 

“He attacked us,” Joffrey said, arm in a sling. Whatever the man had actually done, Eddard thought, the fact was that the boy's wrist was broken. “He's a brigand, and should be put to death!”

 

“Liar!” Arya called- she would have done more if Joey hadn't had a hand on her shoulder. “You were going to hurt Mycah! It's good he stopped you!”

 

“Mycah?” Robert asked.

 

“The butcher's son, your grace,” Eddard explained.

 

“Fine. Hold your tongue, girl, and wait your turn.” 

Arya fymed, but for once did as she was bid.

Joffrey wove a tale of how the man had appeared, brandishing a knife and threatening them all, breaking the boy's wrist when he had tried to protect the others, only evaded by the fact that they ran.

The stranger visibly tensed as the story wore on, fingers twitching for the knives at his belt even with a pair of Lannister spearpoints inches from his throat.

 

“What do you have to say to that, goodman? And what is your name, anyhow?” Robert asked shifting his gaze to the man.

“Glen Carviss,” the man said, staring back at the king steadily. “And that story's bullshit. Ask the girls and the butcher's boy. It's simple enough. I was traveling, and came upon them. I intervened when Blondie here started waving around his oversized knife, and I hope he's learned not to threaten other children for no damn reason. He'll heal, and I think he's learned the lesson he's needed to, so I don't see why I've been herded here. Unless you're the type of people to strike off hands for touching the blood royal.”

There was an ominous silence.

“God's wounds, you are. Just fucking wonderful. If I see that Napoleon fucker again I’ll--”

 

“And where are you traveling from, good man?” the queen asked. “For you seem to have little idea of the country you are in, despite being in it's heart. Can you not even think of a good lie to conceal your banditry? Take his hand and be done with it, I say.”

 

Robert turned in his seat. “Ned?”

 

He considered. “While the methods were harsh, he acted to defend others, and the butcher's boy has the scar to prove Joffrey was threatening him. And if he was a brigand, why would he have waited and cooperated as he has? It seems queer behavior for any bandit.”

 

Robert nodded. “Goodman Carviss, are you willing to ask for forgiveness from me?”

 

“If it convinces your royal highness not to have me beheaded, I'll do whatever need be,” the stranger replied.

 

“See? Simple e--”

 

“A trial by combat,” Cersei interjected. “If you will not avenge our son, perhaps Ser Jaime will.”

 

“As the queen commands,” the Kingsguard said.

 

“Fine,” Robert growled. “Get it over with.”

 

Carviss sighed. “Less than two hours, and already in a fight for my life. Lord, give me strength…”

 

###

 

“He’s going to kill you,” the Stark girl said.

He ignored her, focusing instead on his blades. They seemed to favor plate and mail here- his throwing knives wouldn’t have the force to kill, unless he put one through the man’s visor. And that would be problematic. 

Couldn’t use any of his actually  _ useful _ weapons either, tempting as it might be to ruin Queen Bitch’s fun by putting a plasma burst through her favorite knight’s skull. The winning of the fight would have been spoiled by the frantic accusations of sorcery and heresy, and he didn’t have the ammo to shoot  _ everyone. _

Unfortunately.

“Didn’t you hear me?” the girl asked. “He’ll kill you, and you didn’t do anything wrong!”

He shrugged.

“Don’t you care?”

He looked the girl over. Hard to believe she was a noble. “You are working off of poor information,” he said. “It is highly unlikely that he will kill me.”

“He’s the Kingslayer. One of the best fighters in the realm,” the girl insisted. “You don’t even have a  _ sword. _ ”

“I do not need one.”

True. He just needed to get in close, and the ‘Kingslayer’s’ plate would be about as protective as so much papier-mache. 

He looked from his seat at the foot of one of the wagons, to where said Kingslayer was getting ready. 

The plate would slow him...he smiled slightly.

**[Good.]**

The girl’s wolf nudged his hand, and he scratched it behind the ears. “Large pet of yours,” he said conversationally. “Wolf?”

“Direwolf, like on our banners. She’s Nymeria,” the girl said, before frowning.

“Why’d you do it. Joffrey’s the prince, and now you’re in trouble for stopping him.  _ He _ should be the one the queen is mad at. It’s not fair!”

He laughed. “Child, the world is unfair. Actually, scratch that, all the worlds are. I’ve been to dozens, and each one had suffering and death and unfairness in it. Where there are mortal men, there is unfairness.”

The girl stared at him. “Wh--”

Whatever she planned to ask was cut off by the sound of horns.

Right. The signal. He pulled on his weighted gloves, grabbed his knives, and stood, leaving his coat- and what it contained, thanks to a few spells- behind. Someone stole it, more fool them.

 

They’d cleared off a small circle for their battle. No terrain advantage, unless the grass concealed stones. 

The knight had the advantage of reach, and possibly raw talent. He had experience and a pair of blades that had, at one point, cut open powered armor.

He could do this. The hard part would be surviving the aftermath.


	3. Philosophy and assassins

 

By the gods, the man was no knight. Without the coat to conceal him and hide his movements, he was short and stocky, a sharp contrast to Jaime himself, dressed in a long-sleeved thick black tunic under the brigandine. The man paused as the septon raised his seven-sided crystal, before unhooking a mask from his belt and strapping it on. He got a flash of cropped brown hair before the man put his cap on, staring at Jaime from behind a pair of red round lenses, like a maester’s far-eyes.

 

“Remind me,” he asked, voice hissing slightly. “Is this to the death?”

 

“Or until one of us yields, ser,” he responded, eyeing the man’s choice of weapons. One was a heavy, curved blade, canted forward at an angle. The other was a slim needle of black metal, held in his off hand. Likely meant to puncture armor, or at least slip through gaps.

 

He raised his shield as the septon finished his blathering, sword ready. Carviss was only armored on his chest, and that only a brigandine. He’d go for the man’s limbs, negate his agility, and end it quickly. The man deserved that much.

 

The moment the septon stepped away, Carviss darted forward with inhuman speed, slicing upward with the heavy blade as he slipped past Jaime’s guard. He stepped back reflexively to the sound of screeching metal. His shield caught Carviss on the chin, forcing him back as the crowd gasped. He spared half a breath to look down. 

What by the Seven-- the man’s knife had torn his breastplate open like a nameday present’s wrapping paper!

“They call you Kingslayer,” the man said, circling. Jaime turned to face him, shield held between them. “Did the King deserve it? The rest of your people have put on a poor showing as honor is concerned.”

_ Burn them all! _

He swallowed. The summer sun seemed much hotter, making him sweat inside his armor. He watched the masked man intensely, waiting for the smallest signal-

Carviss rushed forward again, but this time Jaime was ready. His shield took the hellish blade, and it held fast for the briefest moment, long enough for his sword to slash at the man’s throat.

Carviss brought up the knife in his free hand to block, and his sword deflected off with another shriek as he backed away, hoping the man wouldn’t have the chance to swing before he cleared the distance.

By the grace of the gods, he retreated unscathed, Carviss watching him once more.

He couldn’t let the man dictate the pace of the battle. This was a fight for his life now, not a glorified execution. He moved forward, sword swinging, and was gratified to see Carviss being forced back, hopping and dodging his blade, the occasional deflection sending sparks up.

Carviss stopped retreating, blade moving in harsh arcs as it tried to pierce his guard, but Jaime resisted, willing himself to move faster. Neither of them backed down, blades barely visible as they pounded at one another. He could not get past Carviss's guard, nor could the other man get through his. He could feel the other man starting to flag, blows just a touch slower, sloppier, and he pressed his advantage, shouting in triumph as that  _ damned  _ knife was jarred out of his opponent’s hand, leaving him with only the needle. The man raised an arm, and Jaime swung at it, expecting it to yield.

Instead, the blade lodged there with a dull thunk, sending vibrations down his arm. Jaime stared at it in surprise for a moment too long.

The needle-knife tore through gauntlet and bracer, lodging itself between the bones of his forearm, and white-hot agony exploded along his sword arm.

Then Carviss's fist smashed into his jaw, and he knew no more.

 

###

 

Everyone screamed when the Kingslayer fell, but the Queen screamed loudest of all. The masked man paused only long enough to scoop up his fallen knife and return to where he had left his coat, pulling it on as if he hadn't just crippled one of the deadliest swordsmen in the realm. And that was what the Kingslayer undoubtedly would be, now- crippled. The blade had torn through his sword arm with ease- Eddard could tell even as the man fell that the wound would never heal properly.

Carviss looked up at the king. “I won't kill him,” he said. “But he cannot yield unconscious. Is his current state enough to prove the judgement of your seven deities?”

Robert nodded, looking as if he'd aged a dozen years. “Yes, damn your eyes, it does,” he said.

Behind the man, a maester was enlisting the help of a pair of freeriders to carry the Kingslayer off the field. 

Cersei stalked back, glaring at Carviss. “You cheated,” she accused. “Fighting with armor beneath your clothing. You have no honor, none at all,” she spat.

If her eyes had been daggers, Ser Jaime would have been nobly revenged, Eddard reflected numbly. The man turned his head slowly to look at her, before finally removing his mask. “If I had wanted, I could have killed your knight the moment he stepped onto the field,” he said calmly. “And as for armor…” 

He rolled up his left sleeve, revealing a thin sheet of dull grey metal, nearly flush with his forearm. A thin line marked where the Kingslayer’s sword had struck it. “...I simply did not remove my wrist weights,” he said calmly, grey eyes flat. He twisted the metal, and it divided in two along some invisible seam. He handed it to Eddard.

The moment Carviss let go, Eddard practically dropped it on his toes. By gods old and new, the thing nearly weighed more than Robb did!

A chill ran up his spine as he realized the implications.

This man had fought the Kingslayer, and won. Wearing these.

Gods.

Carviss tilted his head as everyone stared at him silently, then shrugged. “Would any of you object if I rode with you?” he asked. “I am a stranger in this land, and wish to avoid becoming a target.”

The man did not seem to realize he assuredly already was.

Robert shook his head as if to clear it, then nodded. “Fine enough. You'll ride with Ned.”

The man's gaze fell on Eddard, and he nodded. “If there are no objections,” he said.

Cersei's mouth snapped shut as Carviss followed Eddard to their wagon. Arya melted out of the crowd, watching him warily. The stranger looked down at her. “You see why I was not worried, girl?”

She nodded, oddly silent.

“Good.”

 

###

Mycah didn’t want to go anywhere with her anymore. His father hadn’t been happy to find out Arya had been fighting with him, and just like that stupid Joffrey had blamed Mycah for it.

And now father made Jory follow her everywhere, and for some reason Carviss followed as well. She could avoid Jory, but the strange man always seemed to know where she’d gone.

Well, not  _ this _ time. She was sure of it. He couldn’t possibly--

A twig snapped behind her.

“Going somewhere,  _ masmadchen? _ ” Carviss asked.

Sighing, she got up from the log she was hiding under. “Why do you keep  _ doing _ that?” she asked, giving him her best glare. “Shouldn’t you be with Father and the others?”

He shrugged. “After the first few times you evaded young Cassel and not me, your Father set me to watch you. I believe the King’s brother commented that the young Prince and the Kingslayer only had one arm left apiece, so it was best to keep a repeat incident from happening again.” His mouth quirked. “Besides, if I had to be in the presence of that fat bastard of a king and his bitch of a queen, half the camp would be on fire by now.”

What.

“Why do you keep saying things like that?” she asked. “You’re like...you’re like Sansa, but with bad things instead of good.”

He nodded. “Your sister thinks the world is a song. Even now. I’ve seen the worst of them all, though, and I know this world can do far better than King Bob and his pack of Aryans.”

“Airy-what?”

“Don’t ask.” He sighed, and sat on the log next to her. “How old are you? Eight?”

“Nine!” she objected.

“Fine. You understand why the king is the king?”

“Because Mad King Aerys was dead, and Rhaegar too, and since everyone wanted him on the throne?” she asked. 

Carviss nodded. “Close enough. I’ve seen all sorts of places and peoples. This one...feudalism is the word my own people use. Peasants, knights, nobility, kings, and then high kings, in that order. Each one with absolute authority over the one below it. But why?”

“Why?”

“Why are things that way? Ask yourself that, and you’re on the path to changing it.” He shook his head. “Ah, you’re nine. I shouldn’t be debating sociology with you.”

“What?”

“The ways groups of people come together and work.” He paused. “In any case, I do not like this world. And I am one man. I cannot exactly force it to be better.”

“Well, how would you, if you could?”

He paused, and looked at her. “Being a warrior here requires strength, to wear armor and wield sword and axe and mace. Not so our own weapons. Women fight alongside men.”

“Could I--”

“I do not have the ammunition to spare.”

That wasn’t fair at all. He dangled that in front of her, then took it away?

“I can teach you to fight with that blade of yours, though. Likely not as well as a master of the craft, but well enough. It--” He held up a hand. “Someone’s here.” 

He threw himself to the side as a crossbow bolt passed through where he’d been, shoving Arya off the log. She hit the ground hard, vision going white as her head cracked on a rock.

“Really? Really? You honestly thought that would work?” Carviss said, voice drifting. “Pack of gold-hungry-” a strange whining bark of a sound, followed by a scream “-idiotic-” the sound repeated itself, and she smelled burning meat. “-medieval morons.” Carviss snarled, as smoke drifted in front of her.

“I fucking hate this planet.”


	4. More breaking of canon

Okay, assassins were officially going on his top ten list of things he hated. Right under fire and zombies. And zombies that were on fire.

_ [Focus.] _

Right. He dumped the scrawny bastard in front of King Bob and sketched a salute as Arya ran back to her father. He pointed his pistol at the man’s foot. “ _ Talk _ ,” he snarled.

The man spat. “Go bugger your-”

The pistol barked, and the man’s right foot evaporated into a cloud of green ionized gas and meaty bits. He screamed in pain, and the growing crowd backed up hurriedly.

“Next one will be your knee,” he said, giving the man his best glare. “Now, who sent you? They’re next, so it’s not as though they’ll kill you.”

“I won’t--”

He stepped on the remnants of the man’s foot, eliciting another scream of pain. “There are truth drugs. I don’t have many, but seeing as you were stupid enough to fire crossbows at me, I might break them out for you. They’ll turn you into a drooling wreck when they run their course, but I’ll have the information I need, so it’s not as though I’ll care. Last chance.”

“He said he was the Prince!” the man sobbed. “Promised us a dozen dragons each to deal with you and the Stark girl. Gold-haired boy, green eyes. Told us to do it from a distance, that you’d damn near killed his uncle. Please, ser, he told us you were a traitor, and the Stark gi--”

His pistol cracked again, and the man’s head was reduced to a smoking ruin. The corpse toppled forward in silence.

“I was told guest right was of great importance to your people,” he said, staring down the King. “And yet your child was stupid enough to violate it in such a manner.” Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely certain the boy was his child. Probably a quirk of genetics on this world, since nobody else seemed to have pointed out how difficult it was to have a blond-haired child with a man with Baratheon’s coloring as the father.

He’d seen wars over bastard children. They hadn’t been pretty.

 

Of course, Queeny McBitch recovered first. “The man lied. He must have. Joffrey would never-”

 

“Produce your errant offspring and ensure he hasn’t left the column all day, and I’ll believe that. Until then...well, is he in trouble if it’s true?”

His words sent a ripple through the crowd, and the King paled. “Hiring men to kill the daughter of a Lord Paramount...means death,” an elderly knight in armor as white as his hair- Bannister? Was that it?- said, looking grave.

A shocked gasp echoed around from the assembled nobles and freeriders, and Eddard Stark’s eyes widened, as did those of his other daughter.

Right. For some godforsaken reason, she’d been betrothed to the boy.

He wasn’t sure which expression he treasured more- the shock on the Queen’s face, the horror on the King’s, or the simple look of father’s rage on Eddard Stark’s.

“I suppose calling for a trial by combat would be in poor taste?” he said softly.

It would. They’d had to lop off the Kingslayer’s hand after infection had set in. He could have saved the man’s hand, but none of the grey-robed rats would let him near the man. And he didn’t have the medical kit to regrow severed limbs.

Aaand that comment had attracted Queenie’s ire, judging by the way she was glaring. Glare away, bitch. He’d been stared down by scarier things than a woman with a gold clothing fetish.

“Don’t even open your mouth, Cersei,” the King said wearily. “If the boy has done what the man said, it’s the black for him at the least.”

“If,” she shot back. “He just killed his only witness. That is not the mark of a man who knows the truth is on his side. And what sorcery is that weapon, goodman? I have never heard of its like.”

 

“The weapon of a civilization large enough to make your Seven Kingdoms look like ants, ma’am,” he said. “A people that conquered the stars themselves. If you call it sorcery, so be it.” He shrugged. “I think I’ve worn out my welcome. See the lot of you in the afterlife. And if I encounter bandits on the road, well, enforcing the King’s Peace will get a bit easier.” He tipped his hat to them, and started walking. 

All he had to do was head north. They’d been going south, and he figured avoiding the procession was a matter of survival, now.

 

###

 

Why had he ever thought going south to be a good idea? They had not even made it to King’s Landing before it had turned to ashes. 

The betrothal was broken, of course. A man of the Watch could take no wife, least of all the daughter of a Lord Paramount.

The boy had confirmed everything, ranting and raving about traitors getting their due. 

He’d planned to marry Sansa to that monster.

Joffrey was out of his hands, now, in the company of loyal me, Stark men, who would see him to the Wall.

They had another set of orders- to keep eyes out for Goodman Carviss. 

He did not think the man would survive long alone. Not with Cersei's wrath inevitable.

 

And now they were at King's Landing. The city stank even from this distance.

If it had not been for the death of Jon Arryn, he would have taken his family and gone already. As it was, he had half-considered sending both his girls back with the caravan. Only Sansa’s pleading had stopped him. She deserved to see the south at least once in her life, false though all the gilding was.

Perhaps he could arrange for her to foster at Riverrun or the Vale, once this was over.

 

“The city still stinks, Ned,” Robert muttered from beside him. “But it's not those sewers of Barth's. Just the rot.”

The King sighed. Since the Prince had been arrested, he'd lost three stone at least, flesh sagging off of him. He looked old, now.

“How did I not see it, Ned? Cersei holds her children close, Joffrey most of all. And look how he turned out...I cannot allow her to do the same to Tommen. He's a good lad. He might do one of your daughters proud one day. I won't let her get her claws into him.”

Not that she would be in any condition to. The Queen had scarcely left the wheelhouse since the arrest.

Robert straightened on his horse, and for half an instant, Eddard saw his old friend again. “Bugger it all, I'm of half a mind to do what Renly keeps suggesting and take the Tyrell girl to wife instead.”

The Tyrells. Eighty thousand swords, the finest knights in the south. Ned simply nodded.

It would be all too easy for the flower to usurp the lion, Castamere or no Castamere. 

 

It could not exactly make things any  _ worse _ , after all.

 

###

 

The inn was large and well-maintained, placed well to catch traffic. Even the innkeep’s stained teeth mattered little with the storm outside.

The gold had been easy enough to find. The men had buried it in a convenient woods, and one of the poor fools had been dim enough to sketch a map. Twelve dragons times eight men made a tidy fortune for him.

And quite a lot of this weak horse piss they called strongwine. Not enough to make him truly drunk-  _ that _ had stopped after his third year in the service- but enough to make things less... immediate.

He sat by the table that afforded him the best view of the door, and thought things over.

Word had spread, as it usually did, and now he had some fool singer not a meter away singing of the wicked Prince and how the Stranger himself had exposed him, how the Stranger killed secrets as well as men.

Bastard was a pain in the ass, and his song was horrendously inaccurate. He didn't much like being compared to a heathen god.

The door banged open as more people straggled in- was that a dwarf? And given how the rest of the world had no magic, probably the deformed kind, not the mining, beards, and axes kind. A pity. Though why he had on a lion-embroidered doublet-

Fuck, he'd drunk too much. The Imp. Tyrion Lannister. And, goddamnit, the man and his crew were taking the table next to his.

“You know, if this is an assassination attempt,” he muttered to the man, “it's not a particularly good one. Must run in the family.”

 

Tyrion turned in his chair, and looked him over. “ I've been accused of many things, some of them even true. But I've never been called an assassin." He paused. "No, scratch that. I have. But that was a family matter. It hardly counts. Care to tell me what gave you the idea that I, of all people, am here to kill you? Or better yet, why I would want to?"

 

“Crippled your brother, and uncovered your nephew’s little ploy to have me killed, getting him sent to the Wall. Which, I’m assuming, is a bloody big deal in this country.” He grinned. “Glen Carviss, at your service. So, now that I’ve told you why, do you wish to kill me?”

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence.

 

Tyrion gave a noncommittal bob of his head. "I might. If, that is, I didn't know that your involvement was probably the  _ least _ of the contributing factors that led to current affairs. My dear sister has long believed our brother invulnerable; it was only a matter of time before she shoved him in over his head. And my nephew?" The Imp lifted his cup and took a long drink before continuing. "My nephew is a terror, and the knowledge that his rotten-hearted backside will never grace the Iron Throne gives me nothing but pleasure." He set the empty cup down very deliberately, with a soft tap of wood on wood. "So no. I don't want to kill you."

 

Well, wasn't that a relief.

“Good. Now I only have to worry about your Lord father reenacting a one-man Castamere on me. Could be worse.” He gestured with the two-thirds drained tankard of strongwine. “So, what brings you to this place? Heading south, or north?”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the singer look at him, then down at his instrument, then back at him. The man quietly put the thing away.

Thank heaven for small mercies.

 

“South. To King’s Landing.” Tyrion made a face, obviously less than pleased with the prospect.

 

“Yes, your sister’s company must be  _ so _ pleasant,” he said. “I'd charge you to have me as a bodyguard, but I’ve come into some money recently. And I've heard there's a prize for a melee. Might make myself some cash that way. Not like I have any commitments.” He drained the rest of his tankard.

 

"Melee. Lovely. Hoping to relieve a few more people of a limb, are you?" said Tyrion.

 

“Nah. While crippling half the knighthood would probably do wonders for your people's egalitarianism, I'll restrict myself to my iron sand gloves. Break bones, but nothing permanent.”

 

“Quite noble of you.”

 

“Aye. You'll leave on the morrow?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then I'll see you at dawn.”

 


	5. About the tourney

 

Arya was bored. Very, very bored.

Father and Sansa were off at the tourney, Sansa and her friends giggling about the lords and knights all the time. She’d be there- Tommen was alright, even if he was a baby sometimes, better than Joffrey anyway- but the Queen would have been there as well.

At least she had Nymeria with her- no amount of the Queen’s complaints had changed that.

But still. Bored.

She wandered near the gates of the Keep, Nymeria at her side, as they began to open. Men on horses trotted through, a small group. She recognized the man at the front- he was too small to be anyone else. They called him the Imp, and he smiled like one.

Behind him, near the back of the group, sat Glen Carviss on an unremarkable brown horse.

How was he even here? Didn’t he know the Queen would be after him? Hadn’t that been why he’d left in the first place?

He nodded to the Imp, and one of the Lannister’s men tossed him a small pouch. He looked at it, then tossed it back with a shake of his head, dismounting. Once his horse was led away, he turned and headed back out through the gate.

_ Calm as still water. Silent as a shadow. _

She and Nymeria followed the moment the guards looked the other way, distracted by a jape the Imp had made. Carviss didn’t seem to notice her.

Hah. Who was the one getting followed  _ now? _

Carviss went down the street, not looking left or right, before ducking down a side alley. She crept up carefully.

The alley was empty, a dead end with a wall blocking it. How--?

Nymeria growled.

“Your footsteps are very noisy,  _ masmadchen, _ ” Carviss’s voice echoed from above. As she looked up, his head poked out from over a roof.

“How did you do that?”

“I am a man of many talents,” he said with a grin. “You are still quieter than you were, I will admit.”

She nodded. Syrio was very helpful.

He jumped down, landing with a thump. “Why are you following me?” he asked.

She frowned as she stared back at him. “I wanted to see what you were doing. Why were you with the Imp?”

“Tyrion Lannister. A title is nothing, a name is clear. And I was with him because we met on the road, little else. With twenty thousand of your gold sovereigns on the prize of the melee, it became obvious what I should do.”

“You're going to fight? That…” she paused. “That doesn't seem very fair to the others,” she said.

Carviss laughed. “That it is not. The problem, though, is that there is no lodging to be had for all the coin in the world. So, a good alleyway will be my resting place until the morrow.” He gestured broadly.

She frowned. He'd probably get robbed, or worse.

“No. I know that look. That's the 'I’m going to bring him home with me’ look. I am not a damn charity case. I'm staying here and that's final.”

 

He grumbled almost as much on the way to the Keep as Father did when he found out Arya had a new tutor.

 

###

  
  


Some tourneys, Sansa knew, had relatively civilized melees, with only two sides. Not her father's tourney (though calling it that brought an odd expression to his face). Here, all the riders gathered in a rough circle, facing one another, glancing from side to side.

The King himself was there, heavy in a massive suit of black plate, and Thoros of Myr in his red robes and funny bald head. Hundreds of knights and freeriders, all in a great ring.

Glen Carviss, of course, had a space around him, despite the lack of weapons in his hands and the seediness of his horse. That mask was just plain  _ unnerving. _

Not as unnerving as Joffrey had been, she remembered.

Lady licked her hand, and she straightened. She had kept her composure throughout the jousts yesterday. A memory could not harm her, no matter how awful.

 

Tommen had none of the charm Joffrey had, and he was little more than a child, but he seemed nice. The Queen was distant today, in a different box, and Arya had joined them, bouncing up and down in her seat. Nymeria was with her, but the usually wild direwolf seemed oddly intent on the scene below.

 

The trumpets blew, and with a tremendous roar, the knights charged into the fray, the melee turning into bloody chaos in an instant as alliances were formed and broken almost at the speed of thought. Thoros of Myr cut a path through the men, his flaming sword spooking their horses and sending men toppling. King Robert was pushing forward as well, his hammer sending men flying as he laughed. And Carviss- was that  _ lightning? _ He’d somehow found a black metal staff whose ends crawled with the stuff, and every man he hit from the back of his seedy brown horse fell, limbs twitching.

She shivered. It could be a trick, like how the red priest used wildfire, but somehow she did not think so.

 

The hundreds shrank to dozens as she watched, men knocked unconscious, dragged off the field, or made to yield. The men on foot outnumbered those on horses, now, working together briefly to fell their remaining competitors. Thoros of Myr caught sight of Carviss, and spurred his horse forward with a shout. Lightning and fire collided, and Carviss’s horse reared as the blazing sword sliced through his staff. Carviss was unfazed, though, leaping and tackling Thoros off his own mount, leaving the priest in the dust as he snatched up half a poleaxe from the ground. 

She’d lost sight of King Robert in the chaos, but he fell upon Carviss like a thunderbolt, hammer swinging wildly. Carviss dodged as a pair of knights, emboldened by the loss of his weapon and mount, ran at the masked man. One was toppled as the poleaxe’s head took him in the chest, the other fell as Robert smashed into him. 

And then a third knight slammed a mace into the back of Robert’s head.


	6. Coup

 

Robert had been unconscious for four days when Stannis arrived.

The king's brother did not announce himself with a grand procession, nor did he ride armored. His only retinue was a slight plainfaced man in simple clothing, and a pair of men who had the look of sailors about them. 

Later that day, he came to Eddard's solar in the Tower of the Hand, Carviss trailing his steps like a shadow.

Knowing who and what the man was did not help his nerves in the slightest, but he'd sworn his loyalty when asked after the melee, and both Arya and Sansa spoke well of him-- even if Sansa's was more based on the 'heroism’ he'd shown 'defending’ Robert as he lay unconscious on the tourney grounds.

Eddard had seen the battle. Robert had not been defended, but more of an inconvenient obstacle to Carviss systematically breaking the joints of the remaining contenders.

 

Carviss fiddled with the lenses of his mask as he closed the door behind Stannis. “Room’s secure, my lord.”

The existence of hidden passages throughout almost every nook and cranny of the Red Keep had not helped Eddard's nerves either. At least now he knew how Varys and his little birds found their tales.

Another worry that Carviss had uncovered, though at least he and Jory had managed to sabotage the entrances to both his own bedroom and those of his daughters.

 

Stannis gave Carviss a look. “How sure are you of that?”

“Entirely. No heat or motion in the passages along the walls. Won't stay that way for long, though.”

Stannis frowned, but nodded, taking a chair across from Eddard. “You've been following in Jon Arryn’s footsteps,” he said shortly. “And my own. I only came back to tell you what we found, and I intend to leave for Dragonstone by nightfall.” He grimaced.

“The King's children are bastards, every one. Worse, they're her brothers get.”

Eddard stared at him. “Do you have proof?”

“Maellon’s book of lineages. Every match between Baratheon and Lannister before has had children with Baratheon features. But the children now are all as golden-haired and green-eyed as the Old Lion himself. And you've seen Robert's own bastards.”

“The seed is strong,” Eddard whispered, and Stannis nodded. “Robert's was. But now he might as well be dead. We will have to move quickly.”

A knife flashed past Eddard's face, punching through a tapestry.

A body thudded to the ground as Stannis upended his chair, turning on Carviss with a shout. Carviss ignored him, striding over to the corpse concealed by the torn-down tapestry, the passage Jory had uncovered empty behind it. He shoved the fabric aside.

Varys's eyes were open, but now they saw nothing at all.

Eddard looked at the eunuch's body. “Somewhat faster, now,” he said. “Can you take my daughter's and send them on to White Harbor? I believe King's Landing will not be safe.”

Stannis merely nodded.

 

###

 

The coup was going well. It made Glen nervous.

Robert had finally died, two days past. A pity, though not a large one. He could have saved him, but the man had not been a good ruler even alive. Perhaps it was better his brethren took the throne.

The two brothers had worked together, Renly offering three hundred trained men to augment Stark’s own guards and the bought-and-paid-for men of the Watch. The Lannister guards had known better than to resist, and the bastard children were in custody. Stark’s men. The man had refused the idea of killing them, and he did not want someone else taking the idea into their own hands.

Some of the guards had fought. They had died, one by one, as they cut a path into the Keep.

It was good the children were away. They should not have seen this.

 

Now there was only the Queen and the Kingsguard, the Iron Throne itself. He looked at the doors, then over at Stannis, Stark, and Renly. “You all may want to stand back.”

 

The explosives made quite the satisfying sound as they blew the overly ornate doors to splinters. The sound of nearly a hundred men charging in was almost as satisfying.

They filled the room, pressing close, but not closing close enough to provoke the seven knights in white. 

He stepped forward, and heard Boros Blount make a quiet whimpering sound.

“Stand aside,” Stannis said to the Kingsguard, matching Cersei Lannister glare for glare. “I am the true king. Your Lannister bastards will never sit the Iron Throne,” he gritted out.

“A fine justification, traitor,” the Queen replied frostily. “How convenient that your allegations would put you on the throne instead.”

“If I had wanted the throne, I would have had it before Robert,” Stannis shot back. “This is your last chance, woman. Stand down. You and your children will be unharmed. Stark has agreed to foster them.”

Yes, in a backwater. Nothing on Shikan from what he'd heard, though perhaps the lengthy winters might change his opinion of that.

The old commander stepped forward, looking at him behind the visor of his armor. “I stood aside for Robert,” he said. “I will not allow another king to rule through mere violence,” he said, drawing his sword. “The Kingsguard defends the royal family. To the death if need be.”

Brave words, especially for a man his age. And true ones. He slung his rifle, and drew knives. He’d grant the man one last fight.

Steel met adamant in a shower of sparks, and Barristan fell back a step before recovering. Not quite as fast as Lannister, not quite as strong, but wily. But not ready for him without the weights. The stiletto punched a hole in his abdomen, staining white armor red, and the kukri tore his head from his shoulders.

The remainder of the guards closed on him as Lannister pulled the queen from her throne. Trying to slow him, even Blount, willing to die. Odd. He’d expected less, somehow.

By the time his internal monologue finished, they had joined Barristan on the floor. A pistol shot, and Lannister fell as well, his grip dragging the Queen down just a few meters from the door.

Glen stepped over the cooling corpses, and stood aside for Stannis. A pair of men with golden flower badges hauled the former Queen away. She sagged for a moment, then gathered herself and stepped free of their grasp, head held high as they turned almost instantly from guards to escorts.

Impressive.

 

He could hear Stannis’s teeth grinding from here as he put a foot on the throne. “This was not how I wished things to go,” he said finally.

Was that a glare? Tough shit, baldy. Hire me, you get violence.

“But it is how things are.”

Glen relaxed slightly, scanning the room. Most of the people here were wearing gold cloaks or golden roses. Only Stark and Stannis weren’t. Even Renly had a rose.

Stannis mounted the throne. “I never wanted this throne. But now it is mine, whether I will it or not. I will strive to do right by the realm, as is my duty.”

Spearbutts slammed on the ground, and men hefted weapons. “OURS IS THE FURY!”

Pointed at-- no--

“RENLY KING!”

 

The crossbows  _ thrummed. _


	7. It's war

 

Tyrion had learned to expect many things. Never inheriting the Rock, Robert dying early, Cersei being, well, Cersei. Many of these things were not obvious to most, and thus he appeared intelligent by virtue of seeing them coming. Knowing to read the writing on the wall had like as not prevented him from becoming a hostage or a corpse in the youngest Baratheon’s attempt at usurpation. So he made it his business to expect most things, some more than others.

 

However, by the Stranger, this particular situation was not one.

“The fact that you escaped was, I think, inevitable,” he said carefully. “Dare I ask how?”

Carviss shrugged, wincing as the motion pulled at what were obviously recent injuries. “Grenades. Tiny explosives. One made noise and light, other put a hole in the wall. Enough for me to grab the King and run.”

Stannis Baratheon's mood had not been improved at all by the crossbow bolts in his arm. He'd been lucky, but Tyrion doubted the man saw it that way.

“And Stark?” he asked. “Surely you didn't--”

“Took two bolts to the gut, ordered me to run,” Carviss said shortly, hands tightening on the clay mug. “Last I saw, he was trying to hold them off.”

Tyrion nodded. “That sounds quite like him.” He held up his own cup, filled with the cheap wine the Riverlands knight had provided. “To Eddard Stark.”

Carviss raised his own cup. “Aye. To Stark.”

They drank.

Carviss stared at his wine. “I wish I could still get drunk,” he said bleakly.

“And I wish we weren't about to end up on opposite sides of a civil war, but sadly the game of thrones must go on,” Tyrion quipped. “Renly has King's Landing, the Iron Throne, and the Tyrells at his back. And you have…?”

“The rightful claim, the Starks, the Tully's, and undoubtedly Dorne,” Stannis replied, coming down from the small rookery. “perhaps the Vale, if Lady Arryn can be pried away from the Eyrie. And perhaps--”

Tyrion cut him off. “You accused my siblings of both treason and incest,  _ your Grace. _ If you think my lord father will actually  _ support  _ you, evidently you've never heard of Castamere.”

Carviss hummed a few bars, which only made the eldest Baratheon's glare intensify to the point it should have cracked glass.

“And Renly had your sister and her children murdered, Imp, no matter what he says from his stolen throne,” Stannis ground out. “If your father wishes to take offense, it should be with him.” His gaze shifted to Carviss. “I am surprised you did not simply take a ship for Asshai.”

“And why would I wish to go to such a place?” Carviss asked.

“Lord Stark told me of your origins,” Stannis said. “You do not seem the sort to stay involved in this... debacle.”

Carviss set his cup down. “Eddard Stark...him, I respected. First person to earn that in this world. And his dying orders were to see you seated on that ugly hunk of rusting metal you consider worth dying for. So I'll follow that, for him at least.” 

Stannis muttered something on the edge of hearing, shaking his head. Tyrion caught the words 'Stark’ and 'prefer’. “Fine,” he said, heading for the stairs. “We should be riding for Riverrun now. And hope your father at the least has the sense to stay out of this.”

Tyrion grinned. “And I and my men never saw you, nor have any idea where our horses went, I'd wager?”

Carviss chuckled. “Smart man. Though I still don't know why you and your red-cloaked goons didn't try to grab us.”

“Mostly due to the fact I value my life,” Tyrion said. “That, and even with what looks to be three or four quarrel tips still stuck somewhere irritating, I doubt a half-dozen redcloaks would do more than annoy you. I would accomplish nothing, and lose my life.”

Carviss tipped his cap as he followed Stannis down the narrow steps of the holdfast. “Good to know _ someone _ knows the odds,” he said.

Through the small window, he shortly heard the sound of horses leaving, and sighed, draining his wine cup. They'd have to make for Casterly Rock. And he'd have to pray to the Seven he could convince his father of the truth.

_ Cersei, Jaime...fools, the both of you. Living like Targaryens. And Renly...beloved of the Reach and the Stormlands or not, you should have known better than to attack your brother. A plague of fools, all of you. _

He stood, and started heading down the stairs. He'd have to leave the poor Ser Grey some coin to repay him for his hospitality.

Lannisters paid their debts.

He just hoped his father knew who to pay them to.

 

###

 

They came through the Neck, past the ruins of Moat Cailin, twenty thousand strong. Grim men, cold men. Karstark lances, Umber axemen, men of Winterfell and White Harbor and the Dreadfort. 

By southron standards, they were poorly armored, and with few true knights among them. Only a small fraction had sworn themselves to the Seven, most of them Manderly bannermen. The North kept the old gods.

They had come from villages, from walled towns, from holdfasts and hamlets and desolate corners of lonely mountains. They had come from hardscrabble farms and stony earth, from lands that knew snow even in the height of summer. 

They marched as one, and for every banner that bore flayed man or mermaid, chained giant or sunburst, another rose above it on the same staff, a direwolf lean and fierce. Stark’s.

They had come in the name of a dead man, following his son willingly. They had come to exact their price, in blood and iron and flame. 

The North remembered, and it neither forgave nor forgot.

 

Stannis watched as the Northern army filed past, atop his horse and silent. He knew Stark's men marched for Robert's precious Ned, and not for him, but it mattered little why they fought. He knew they would fight well, without reservation.

Edmure Tully had brought thirty thousand of his own, massing them at Riverrun. And while there had been no answer from Lysa Arryn on her Eyrie, two thousand knights of the Vale, led by Brynden Tully, had come marching to join them, ignoring the commands of the sickly child who held the falcon seat. They, too, marched for a dead man. Jon Arryn, who had been a father to Robert and Eddard both.

 

Fifty-two thousand. His own small contribution, the lords of the Narrow Sea, brought that to fifty-six. Not enough, not to face the Reach and the Stormlands, with the Old Lion waiting in the wings. 

 

The crown was a simple thing, gold with antlers worked into it. Not what the red woman had prophesied him wearing, but it burned all the same.

Duty.

Despite what Renly proclaimed, that he was jealous of both him and Robert, that he was a schemer, a murderer of women and children...he had never wanted the Iron Throne. Carviss had been right in calling it a heap of scrap.

Storm’s End had been what he had wanted, had been due to him once Robert had taken his seat on the pile of scrap. A chance to have what was owed to him. Renly seemed to have made a habit of taking what was his by right, and somehow men fell for his smug wit and gilded charm.

 

He turned his horse around, riding back to the tent that had been set for him and dismounting. Stark’s son was already there, a boy just growing a beard, who could not have been more than fifteen. Carviss stood there as well, eyeing the Northern bannermen from behind his mask. Stannis had told him to relay Stark’s fate. Judging from their expressions, they were not happy. He almost pitied the Tyrells.

They all took a knee, except Carviss, and he waved impatiently. “Rise. We do not have time for extravagance.”

He walked over to the small camp table, on which a map of the riverlands had been spread, held down by random bits at the corners. He tapped a marker, just south of where the three forks of the Trident met. “We can make our way to Harroway in ninety days,” he said. “Renly and his army will have to meet us there. It is the meeting of both the Kingsroad and the River road.”

“And be outnumbered four or five to one?” Lord Umber questioned. “If we met them, we’d be smashed aside.”

 

“Not nearly as much. You forget both Lannister and Dorne. While Tywin has not answered, he remains a possible threat to the Tyrell claims, and the Dornish hate the Reach as well. They will have to detach men to guard the Marches and the Westerlands. Thirty or forty thousand for the Marches, less for the Westerlands. Leaving roughly sixty thousand to face us if they march.”

 

“That seems...optimistic,” Stark said. “More likely they will reduce what they have to guard the passes. Closer to seventy or eighty thousand. He has to crush you, your grace, or his claim weakens.”

 

“Traitor has little experience, from what you’ve told me,” Carviss added softly. “He’ll throw caution to the wind to take you out. Half again as many men as us even working together.” He tilted his head slightly. “Might be I can take them out before they meet, if you don’t mind collateral damage.”

Stannis held up a hand, stopping the confused exclamations from the northerners before they could start. “How so?”

 

Even with the stiff mask covering the man’s face, he could  _ feel  _ that aggravating grin. “I’ve got a few tricks that make wildfire look like an uppity candle, ser,” the man that Stark had said came from another world said. “And I can move faster than the army, on a good mount. But I’ll need a way to catch them all at once, and I doubt they’ll deploy in mass for a lone man, no matter what those singers say about my reputation.”

 

Stannis tapped the map again. “Harrenhall. Renly is bound to place his army there. It’s the only place large enough to hold him if he stops. Once he takes it…”

 

“I get to reenact the Conquest, minus the dragons and with twice the fire,” Carviss replied.

 

“See to it.”

 

The man bowed and left.

 

Stark had paled slightly. “You don’t...honestly think he’s capable of that, do you?” he asked.

 

Stannis gave him a look. “He cut his way through dozens of Tyrells and gold cloaks on our way out of King’s Landing, despite his injuries, and saw me safely through. I’ve seen some of his weapons. I doubt he is one to boast or exaggerate,” he said evenly. “Even if he can not, it only costs me one horse to find out, and he will doubtless harm Renly’s forces significantly, even if he is talking nonsense.”

 

“And even if he is, he might just buy us a little more time to fortify at Harroway,” Stark mused. “We should be able to hold them effectively enough with time to prepare.”

 

“Exactly. Now, on to other matters. The Fleet at Dragonstone…”

 

As the Northerners got to the business of planning the war, Stannis simply was glad the red woman was not accompanying him.

She’d refused to, speaking nonsense about seeing a winged figure, hooded and carrying a scythe. The day before he’d left for King’s Landing, she’d been found dead in her quarters, burned by the fires she loved to stare at. The occurrence still unsettled him.

And what on earth did the word ‘Azrael’ mean?


End file.
